We Are The Underground!

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In Between Hangovers is seeking well crafted poems. 6 Max to inbetweenhangovers@yahoo.com No previously published and no simultaneous submissions. Include photo and SHORT bio. Expect a timely response. Work published on a rolling basis. -Tasha

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Month: May 2017

This world was created to dumbfound,
to make incomprehensible the
reasons to be alive. Think of it.

Look around. The insanity is
as palpable as rain in your face.
We are cimmerian shade deeply

rooted in shadows, as unreal to
each other as we are to ourselves.
I can prove this with a memory:

a shabby apartment, a bed meant
for one used by two and sex there so
honest, it bled out honey onto

the sheets. All these things behind rarely-
opened doors. It was the least pride I’d
ever known. I was recondite to

myself. Through the hours spent there, I could
hear the gods cackling, sending visions
of farceurs and robots through my head.

None of this was unique. Millions of
bodies did what we did. It may have
been love or just the contents of a

newly-opened jar laid on its side,
contents spreading slow like melted gold
(or raw honey) over years, over

terror, over moments and music.
Insanity ruled and we quit each
other. The aluminum taste of
lithium has never left my mouth.

​Newberry’s books are NEVER COMPLETELY AWAKE (Deerbrook Editions), TAKE THE LONG WAY HOME (due out in late 2017 from Unsolicited Press), WHERE IT GOES (Deerbrook Editions), LEARNING BY ROTE (Deerbrook Editions), RUNNING LIKE A WOMAN WITH HER HAIR ON FIRE (Red Hen Press), LIMA BEANS AND CITY CHICKEN: MEMORIES OF THE OPEN HEARTH (E.P. Dutton &Co) Her work has been anthologized and widely published in the U.S. and abroad. She lives in Los Angeles with her husband, Brian Newberry, a Media Creative.

the mouse and camel in subtle worship
under nuclear colored skies
restless ground
dead mountains protruding
following a candle lit
one would lead the other
chest full of laughter
where the other would not
watching the crow fly
talons crushing/gripping the frog’s eye
so much for friendship and string
no open windows here

Michael Zone is the author of Fellow Passengers: Pubic Transit Poetry, Meditations & Musings and Better than the Movies: 4 Screenplays. His work has been featured in Because Eileen, Dead Snakes, Horror Trash Sleaze, In Between Hangovers, Sick Lit Magazine, Three Line Poetry, Triadae Magazine and The Voices Project. He scrapes by in Grand Rapids, MI

They
are carried by rivers
across the wooden bridge
and through the gate.
Young and old
skeletons intertwine.
Bones blindly seeking bones.

Row after row
they stand
in the frozen hail,
ignore commands to return.
March through snow fields,
fall into fox traps,
step into
merciful ice that yields
under their feet,
encases them
in mammoth remains.

Snow continues cruel and soft.

Hanoch Guy spent his childhood and youth in Israel surrounded by citrus orchards ,water melon fields and invading sand dunes. He is a bilingual poet in Hebrew and English,.

Hanoch is emeritus professor of Jewish and Hebrew literature in Temple University

He has taught mentoring and poetry classes in the Musehouse center in Philly.

Hanoch has published poetry extensively the US,Israel and the UK in Genre,Poetry Newsletter, Tracks , the International Journal of Genocide studies Poetry Motel,Visions International,Voices Israel and several times in Poetica where he won an award

The tiny half grown birdling flew away in the wind
She crashed in and out of nests strewn with litter
And then onto the next nest;
trying to become at least
half of what mother bird had made herself to be

Finally flat on the ground bound by bruises
tied up in hand made nooses
Tiny; sought strong straight trees for answers
Trees; with stepping stone bark
Trees; with branches that bent willowy to reach her
Trees which beseeched her to stop trying to heal all of the other broken winged birds
To heal herself;
To deal with all the self-inflicted wounds
To become in tune with what she wanted, needed, or was fleeing from
Tiny, rested, nested, and became aware of the view

Thasia Anne is the producer, director, and participant in Women of Word featuring a few Man Made Words (WOW) on Edinboro University of Pennsylvania campus. WOW has as the troop of poets reading individual poetry woven into conversation, with 2017 being the seventh year. She has been published in “Our Favorites”; Poets’ Halls Press, “Spitmag; Art and Poetry Magazine Vol.2, & 3”, “Poetry of S.O.U.L. An anthology of selected works from Poets around the world”, “Word Stock” and “Delirious, A Poetic Celebration of Prince.”

Ooh, you are much more pretty close up,
even in these half shadows,
and you were fucking stunning to begin with.
You smell absolutely gorgeous,
like sneezing whilst ram-raiding
an exploding florist in the Summertime.
But, he’s only 4ft or so away
and probably going to wake up any second.
Someone’s going to get knifed.
There’ll be complete fucking hell up.
We’ll never live this down, like ever.
Stop grinding a second, let me adjust myself,
I was half-drunk and almost asleep.
Stop panicking, it’s only me,
I’m just reaching ‘round to feel your arsehole
this is all brand new ground… mMm.
You swallow? Really, cool, no, don’t stop,
I’m just logging it in my wank-bank for later.
OK, this is getting dangerous now…
we’re just finishing off, yeah?
I think I’m going to be first… quickly, yes,
Oh My God, you just feel so fucking good.

Tango tunes, music to dance
the night away, flushed by sweet
wine, a taste of liqueur, her face
a lover’s incantation, a siren singing
the irresistible, breathless words of
love all those moonlit nights outside
her second story bedroom window,
surreptitious as a burglar dressed
all in black, the love of her the worst
kind of drug, stronger than compulsion,
primal, it pulls you beyond reason,
beyond the dream image of her
silhouette behind the drawn shade,
a profile of a movie screen lover
embracing the tangoman, stung by
the kiss of spider women, that last
embrace an acceptance of the venom,
so sweet, so pure, so everlasting.

Alan Catlin is the poetry editor of misfitmagazine.net. His latest books of poetry are American Odyssey from Future Cycle and Last Man Standing from Lummox Press

No doubt the man was
convinced I was having
something with his wife:
for whatever reason he
never asked me direct
but dropped little word-
bombs of his suspicion
which were without
truth:
his wife and I had
experienced a great deal
together but fucking
wasn’t one of them,
everything else but
fucking:
I didn’t tell the asshole
this, I let him keep on
guessing and he died
never knowing if I’d
fucked his wife or not
and all he had to do was
ask me and I would have
told him ‘She loves you
man, we’re friends, sex
has nothing to do with our
love, it’s beyond that’
but I think maybe he’d
not understand this
being the outdated macho
silent brooding bullshitter
that he was.